The first prophecy did not shatter dramatically.
It simply returned nothing.
In a quiet chamber beneath the royal castle, an old seer stared at the crystal orb before her, hands trembling.
"Show me the chosen path," she whispered.
The orb remained dark.
Again, she tried—pouring mana, chanting words that had worked for decades.
Nothing.
"No… that's not possible," she muttered.
Across the capital, the same scene repeated.
Books of fate produced blank pages. Divine readings contradicted one another. Future-sight spells returned impossible results—events without causes, outcomes without beginnings.
The system was still running.
But it no longer knew what to say.
Anos Voldigoad watched the disruption from the terrace, expression unchanged.
"So prophecy depended on a closed future," he said. "Once time was freed, prediction lost authority."
Subaru shifted uneasily. "You're saying… the future isn't written anymore?"
"It never was," Anos replied. "It was restricted."
Below them, a royal messenger ran through the streets, panic clear in his voice.
"The Oracle reports failure!"
"The Dragon Stone won't respond!"
"None of the candidates are confirmed!"
The Royal Selection—already wounded by the destruction of the insignia—began to rot from within.
In the council chamber, nobles shouted over one another.
"Without prophecy, we have no legitimacy!"
"Call the Sword Saint!"
"Summon the Dragon!"
Far away, Reinhard felt the summons echo—and declined.
"This isn't something strength can solve," he said quietly.
Deep beneath the world, ancient seals strained.
Not because Anos attacked them—
But because they no longer had context.
Seals designed to respond to "the destined ruler" found no such concept.
They waited.
And waited.
And failed.
Anos closed his eyes for a brief moment.
"This world mistook foresight for wisdom," he said. "And inevitability for order."
He opened them again.
"Now it must choose."
The sky remained clear.
No signs.No omens.No guiding hand.
Only uncertainty.
And for the first time since its creation—
The future of Lugnica belonged to those who would act, not those who were foretold.
Anos Voldigoad turned away from the terrace.
"Let us proceed," he said.
Because the age of prophecy had ended.